It Will Keep
by bugsfic
Summary: When the phone rings.


_Spoilers for Episode 5.5_

* * *

Going on 9:30; her boys are all late for dinner tonight. Lid back on the pot roast; no sense dishing up. The clock ticks loud; the house echoes empty. The dark kitchen window mirrors her pale face with furrowed brow. Had a man really been in the garden? Times like this, she misses Mattie.

The phone's shrill rings shatter the silence. A smile on the reflection. He's learning to ring up when he's delayed, or sends a message.

"Blake residence."

"Jean, it's Matthew."

"Are you all held up? Because this roast is drying out—"

"I've sent a car for you."

Blood rushes in her ears like being caught in an undertow. "What is it?"

"He's not dead. But it's bad."

"I see."

The car will be there soon. I must go."

"Yes."

It takes several times to get the receiver back in the cradle. She presses it down, hard, with both hands, to assure it's secure.

Turn off cooker. Remove apron. Pull on coat. Try to put keys in handbag, but drop them. The clatter on the floorboards rattles around in her skull. Carefully, slowly, bend to pick them up and shove them deep to the bottom of the bag.

A faint siren comes closer and closer. Shutting off the house lights, she opens the door. Yes, it's bad. Bad enough for a police car arriving at the house with siren wailing. Bill Hobart strides around to hold the door open for her.

"Thank you," she manages and he nods.

Bill drives away with a screech of tyres, pressing her against the door when he takes the turn out of the drive with a sharp yank of the steering wheel. The streets are dark, with a sliver of blue dusk at the horizon. The streetlights had just come up, pools of yellow on the black tarmac. Dark and light, yes or no, life or death.

Sure that Bill won't try to protect her sensibilities, she asks, "What happened?"

"The Doc confronted Percy Walker and the bugger stabbed him."

The pain strikes between her own ribs. She shakes her head in denial. When she sees him, first she'll ask why he'd failed her. He'd promised—not in words, but in his touch, his caresses, the heat of his breath on her skin, the looseness in his limbs—that he wouldn't take risks anymore. His life has real value now. Why had he tossed it away like emptying change from his trouser pockets?

That gypsy talisman hangs on the corner of his dressing table mirror. He doesn't carry it, had only smiled when she asked him to do so; she can't always be with him as protection. Arrogant, arrogant man! First tears pricking at her eyes but she blinks them away. Not the right place or time.

She tries prayer, but the words only rub on the open sore that is her love for him. And she knows that he wouldn't appreciate it. He may still believe in God, but he doesn't want her taking up his case with Him.

Bill seems grateful that she didn't ask more. He does what he does best, drive fast and recklessly, grinding the gears, and blasting the horn at other vehicles who dare to get in his way.

The squat white block that is the Ballarat Hospital, brightness in the night. Bill drives right up to the front door. A cluster of coppers outside. "It's bad," Jean murmurs. She knows how it is when a policeman is dying; they all come.

"The Doc will be fine," grunts Bill, more a threat than a promise.

She gets out and mumbles, "thanks," her manners momentarily deserting her.

Charlie meets her inside the door, his jacket undone. She stares at the blood on his shirt and he quickly buttons up. "This way, Jean," he says, leading her down the corridor.

Matthew is there, his hands still stained with blood, hastily washed. He reaches for her with those hands. "He's gone into surgery."

The surgery theater is further along the corridor. He tugs her back, trying to hold her still. Struggling—

"Jean, there's nothing you can do."

How dare he say that. How dare he— She must be saying this aloud, because Matthew apologises: "I'm sorry."

She regains control. "Yes, yes, of course." She's spent a lifetime not making a fuss and not upsetting others. It feels like a betrayal to him when she sags against Matthew and allowed him to lead her to a chair.

His arm is heavy, holding her down to the seat, otherwise she'd float away. She can smell the blood on his hands under the harsh soap. Blood pressing through her arteries, somehow keeping her alive, as each breath is laboured. Is he awash in blood? Is he fighting to breathe?

She should cry but that would waste precious energy. Raising her chin, she asks once more, "What happened?"

"Best we can figure, he was searching Vern's workshop again. You know how he is. Dog with a bone." Matthew's resentment matches that which singes her heart, turning it black around the edges.

"So Percy, he was the killer, comes back too. Looking for whatever Lucien found. And he was going to take it."

"Lucien didn't give it up."

"I don't think he had much choice. Percy wasn't going to leave a witness. See what he did to that boy."

"He was stabbed then?"

"Yes—"

The clattering of heels on the linoleum and Jean starts, as a deer leaping to flight.

"I just heard," Alice says, stopping before them and clenching her hands.

"Can you ask the matron what the extent of his injuries are?" Matthew asks. "The surgeon said a bunch of babble about tension in his chest?"

Alice's face blanches and she's gone as quickly as she came.

"It's bad," Jean whispers. She was cold, now she's hot. Dark and light. Death and life. Living hurts so much sometimes. After years alone, she'd stepped into the sun and turned her face up to the rays, and it burns painfully.

Up and pacing. Running in place. Caged and untethered at the same time. Horrid, clear thoughts about arranging a funeral, boxing up his things, keeping his shirt on her pillow until his scent is gone—

Alice is back.

"It's bad," Jean repeats, reading her face.

"Yes. But it would appear that he saved his own life by administering a needle decompression with his pen barrel."

A ragged, painful sob of joy—he wanted to live. That means more than a proposal and a ring given over a candlelit dinner.

Alice starts to explain the technical aspects of his injury, and Matthew nods as though he understands, although he clearly doesn't. Alice sees this and winds down: "He'll survive and should be good as new, if he'll rest and heal properly."

Matthew chuckles.

"When can I see him?"

"He's in recovery now. He'll be moved to a room shortly."

Gently, Alice leads her to the room with an empty waiting bed. She slumps in a chair, strength gone. A flame flickers in the dying embers though. She can't truly relax until she sees him, touches him, knows for certain that he lives—

Minutes…an hour? Orderlies bring Lucien in, unconscious, his hair rumbled and face waxen. It takes four of them to move him onto the bed. On her own, she's supported him to bed, but that's different, she supposes.

Alone but for Alice who is a quiet spirit. Fumbling in her handbag, Jean finds a comb. She carefully smooths his hair.

When she's done, Alice checks his pulse. "Good," and steps back again to wait.

Yes, he should sleep, rest, gain strength. Fingers stroke his forearm, reveling in the warmth of his skin; his blood flows strong. Feel his pulse as well, just to be sure. Moth's wings-light flutter against her own cold fingers; he's trying to squeeze her hand. Sweep his eyelids open with the back of her fingers, bringing him to life.

Only then can she can say his name: "Lucien."

~ end


End file.
